


If I Could Tell Them

by TheSleepingKnight



Series: A Million Worlds Apart [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily-centric (DCU), Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, Gen, Lack of Communication, New 52, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Preboot, Rebirth, The Batfamily Has Issues, Timeline Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepingKnight/pseuds/TheSleepingKnight
Summary: Duke Thomas is the only one who remembers his parents, and maybe that's what makes all the difference. Or, Bruce Wayne finally learns how to dad.
Series: A Million Worlds Apart [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863877
Comments: 15
Kudos: 118





	1. Taking Action

Duke still feels like he doesn’t belong.

How could he? He lived with some of the greatest heroes of the age. He came home (could he call the Manor that? Home? Was there a period of time that needed to pass, or a rite of passage? Could he never not feel like he was still waiting to go back to Duke Thomas’ home, and not The Signal’s?) and talked to the bravest men and women he knew. People who had bled and burned and been _buried_ to protect Gotham.

And he was living with them.

Him. Duke Thomas.

Steph helps. In a lot of ways, she’s also never really found her footing in the family, especially with how much timeline changes had completely screwed her life (it does bother him, how he’s the only one who wasn’t here _before._ When some god decides to play again, will he remain? Or is he as temporary and fleeting as the last victory against the forces that crawl from behind the stars?) They have a lot of long conversations about how _different_ things are, now. Ever since things changed. Or went back. However it works.

From a certain point of view, he’s gotten _lucky—_ Steph has two lives in her head, and sometimes she comes to him with a wild look in her eye, unsure of which memories to trust. Damian, one night, had gone looking for a friend who apparently hadn’t survived the timeshift and had refused to accept it. Jason and Tim had gone back to being uncomfortable with each other— apparently, in this timeline, Jason had _seriously_ attempted to murder the kid. Jason in general was...different. Ever since things snapped back he’d only come to the cave when absolutely necessary. Dick had taken things fairly well, and he was somehow _better_ at fighting now, which just seemed unfair to Duke.

And Bruce—

He needs to talk to Bruce. Because he’s been standing back, watching things unfold, and _remembering_.

He feels like an outsider because he’s the only one who remembers his parents. He’s the only one who hears the soft echo of his father contrasted against Bruce’s sharp voice, the only one who remembers the warm hugs of his mother contrasted with Bruce’s frozen isolation. He’s the only one who can see the way the light shines in the eyes of his children.

And maybe that means it’s up to him to try and make things right.

* * *

The moment comes when he arrives after a day on the town and finds Bruce in a rocking chair in the lounge, a warm mug in hand and staring at a family portrait. And he’s already decided that he’d much rather try to do this while Bruce wasn’t putting on the armor of Batman to shield him. In some ways, he gets it. Batman was a symbol. He had to be perfect. Infallible. If he wasn’t, then the underworld of Gotham would see the weakness and seize it. As such, trying to _criticize him_ was...in many ways, unproductive as a whole.

“Hey, Bruce.” he says, sliding into a sofa. Bruce, ever the stoic, barely even reacts.

“Hello, Duke. Good day?” He asks. They didn’t talk about _it_ outside of costume, just in case.

“It was a good day.” He says, with a grin. He’d managed to bust a human trafficking ring after weeks of working on it, and he hadn’t even required back up this time. “I.” He swallows, going back over his script (yes, of course he wrote a script, he needed to do this _gently_.) “I was hoping I could talk about something, with you.” Bruce turns to him, eyes bright with suspicion and alert. “Nothing _urgent._ ” Duke stresses. “But it is important.” Bruce nods slowly, practically burning with desire to know exactly what was going on and how he could fix it.

“I don’t have any meetings this morning. Would you prefer to speak somewhere more quiet?”

“Somewhere we wouldn’t be walked in on easily would be nice.” Duke agrees. He wants Bruce to feel as comfortable as possible— and he doesn’t want any of his… siblings (the word is unfamiliar and strange, as nice as it is) to interrupt. Bruce nods slowly again, and takes him and his mug up the stairs, until they arrive at his personal bedroom, that Duke can never remember him actually _sleeping_ in. Bruce sits down at his bed, and Duke considers for a split second and chooses to sit on the dresser. Casual, relaxed.

“What is it that’s important?” Bruce asks, and here goes nothing. Breathe in, out…

“It’s about the family.” Duke says.

“Are your parents okay?” Bruce asks, leaping to the worst case scenario. “I’m supposed to get an alert if anything changes—”

“They’re fine, Bruce.” He puts up a hand. “It’s. It’s about _this_ family.” Bruce shifts, concern transforming to suspicion wants more.

“Has Damian or Jason done something?” He demands. “Or Stephanie?”

“No,” Duke says, noting _who_ exactly he’d leapt to for being a problem. “It’s.” He sighs. “There’s no easy way to say this, Bruce. It’s you.”

Bruce…

Deflates.

“Oh.” The man says, face unreadable as stone. Silence stretches on, and Duke refuses to talk first. Eventually, after a long period of silence that was probably just a few seconds, he continues. “Have I… done something, Duke?”

“Not to me.” And that’s not _true,_ but it’s not what’s important right now. “But you have to your other kids, Bruce.”

“If this is about what happened in the last timeline, I—” Duke holds up a hand, and Bruce actually stops, which is encouraging.

“I know you already apologized for the whole mess with your alternative universe dad.” Duke says, even though he’s still kind of pissed about that. “But it’s about that and other things. Lemme talk for a bit?”

Bruce nods, and Duke takes in another deep breath.

“Do you remember when, in the timeline Barry created, you discovered the Court of Owls?” Bruce nods, even as his hands twitch. The labyrinthine had been...hard, on him. Guilt swells even as he goes on.

“You hit Dick.” Duke says, and Bruce goes stiff as a rock, panic and _indignation_ flashing across his face, so Duke barrels on. “I know you were scared and you wanted to— to remove that tooth just in case it had some kind of tracker or anything but you _hit him_ hard enough to do it. Your son.”

“I wasn’t myself in that timeline.” Bruce says, breaking his agreement and retreating back into stoicism. “I would never—”

“I know that, Bruce.” Duke cuts him off. “I _know_ you love him. But am I wrong in assuming you really didn’t wanna talk about it and thus never brought it up with Dick?” Bruce frowns, and that’s as good as a yes, with him.

“I didn’t want to bring up… bad memories.” The man admits. “I— that timeline, what Dick went through with Spyral and then—” Bruce stops talking, but Duke almost see Bruce remembering the spray of blood and the sound of Dick falling to the ground, ripped away so similarly to the way his parents were. It’s really not surprising that he didn’t want to think about that any more than strictly necessary. “I wanted to give him time to come to terms with it. I wouldn’t want anyone to force me to talk about my identity being erased like that.” _Like you’re doing right now,_ is the unspoken accusation that Duke acknowledges but continues:

“Bruce, I think that you have the same issue that my parents did before we talked about it. You assume that people cope and process the same way that you do. And that they also have the same love language as you do.”

Bruce looks at him, and it’s so rare to see him look _confused,_ black brows furrowed and bright blue eyes piercing as if trying to find the answer inside of Duke’s own.

“Love language?” he echoes.

“Yeah. How people express affection, familial or otherwise. For example, Dick expresses love with words and with actions: he’s a hugger. And a damn good one at that.” Bruce gives his trademark small smile, which is a good sign. “Damian, on the other hand, responds to gifts. The mantle of robin, a ceremonial blade, things like that.”

Bruce nods again, clearly paying attention to every word.

“Your love language is also gifts, from what I’ve heard.” Duke goes, and Bruce doesn’t nod but clearly considers it, gears churning behind his eyes. Here comes the tricky part. “And I think that it would make things a _lot_ better if you would try and use the other’s love languages.”

“So things are...bad?” Bruce asks, even as Duke can see him processing and storing the advice. Duke can’t help but wince and nod, even as Bruce’s shoulders sag again.

“I think that you’ve...unintentionally hurt them, Bruce. And as their father, it’s up to you to take the first step towards repairing the damage.”

“I don’t want to push them.” Bruce says, shaking his head. “If— if I’ve hurt… then shouldn’t they not want to see me? To talk about it? When I— when things got bad, Dick left. Tim left. They’ve made it clear that they want space.”

“Bruce.” Duke steps off the desk and puts his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Just because you’ve hurt them doesn’t mean they don’t want you around. What they want is for you to _talk_ to them. And to _listen_ to them. You’re their father. They want to have a good relationship with you.”

“Then why haven’t they talked to me about this? Why did you have to do it?” And it’s really, really amazing, Duke reflects, how the world’s greatest detective can be so blind when it comes to the people closest to him.

“Because, Bruce. You cope with stress and trauma by wanting space and working it out on your own terms. You’ve taught them that you _don’t_ do talks about personal feelings. They don’t come to you because they feel like _you_ won’t listen.”

Understanding bursts across Bruce’s face like an exploding star, and a hand comes up to his mouth and then to his eyes in a rare show of genuine emotion.

“I—” The man begins, and then stops. Silence stretches out before he admits: “I know I haven’t been the best father. To any of them.” He swallows, pain clear in every motion. “I wanted— I wanted them to not end up like me. To stay safe. To not be so bound to the mask as I am.”

“You’re not bound to Batman, Bruce.” Duke murmurs. “No more than I am to Signal.”

Bruce looks at him, and there’s a desperate hopelessness in the gaze that leaves Duke floored.

“I’d like to believe that.” Bruce says, rubbing at his wrists. “But I am, Duke. Batman dictates every aspect of Bruce Wayne’s life. He has to. The Mission _has_ to take priority. Otherwise, I don’t deserve the cowl. I don’t deserve to—” He stops, but Duke can end of that sentence in the echoing silence:

_I don’t deserve to live._

“And that means I’ve.” Bruce continues, gasping for air, even as Duke fights the instinct to wrap the man in a hug because _holy shit._ “I’ve done and said things I regret. I can’t take them back no matter how much I wish I could.”

“We can’t take anything back.” Duke responds. “We just have to deal with the implications and try to repair the damage. And it is _your_ responsibility to take the first step towards repairing, Bruce. Being Batman doesn’t mean you can’t be better to your kids. As for The Mission: have you considered that improving your relationship with your kids will improve how you work in the field? How many times has stress and hurt feelings led to injuries and failed ops?”

“...Several.” Bruce admits, a hint of the Bat’s gruffness leaking through. “But—”

“Bruce, I’m telling you. You _need_ to communicate with them. Learn their love languages, learn how they cope. Talk and _listen_ to them. I promise things will get better if you do.”

Bruce, shockingly, submits and nods, and after another long silence Duke almost goes to leave, but—

“What’s yours?” Bruce looks...pensive, almost. “Love language, I mean.”

“I respond to actions.” He says. “I grew up hearing all kinds of promises that things were gonna get better that people forgot about. I appreciate people who follow through.”

Bruce nods once more, absorbing it.

“I promise I will follow through, Duke. Thank you.” He pauses, and then continues more hesitantly. “Please… give me time.” The giant of a man shifts, looking so small on the bed he’d grown up in. “It’s. Hard for me to talk about my feelings. I’ve never been any good at it. But I promise I will act on what you’ve told me today.” The sincerity is so complete it’s almost overwhelming— he’s actually managed to get through to the man. Look at that.

“I will. And trust me,” Duke grins. “I think if you try, the others will too. Good luck, Bruce.” He almost leaves before he ducks back in. “Oh, and don’t mention I encouraged you to talk to them. Don’t want them to think I’m meddling.”

“Can’t have that.” Bruce wryly agrees. Duke grins, leaves the room, and then Duke nearly collapses with relief.

He did it. Finally.

And maybe, after Bruce gets his head out of his ass, he won’t be such an outsider anymore.

Duke Thomas goes to grab some coffee and prepares for a nice, quiet evening.


	2. Promises, Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce tries to talk to his not-really-but-she-feels-like-a daughter. It goes a bit sideways.

Bruce Wayne does not make promises lightly or easily. He has lived in a world filled with humans, and he knows how cheap the words are, nowadays. They’re as empty of a platitude as _I’m so sorry_ and _your parent’s killers will be brought to justice._ His father rarely promised anything— his word _mattered_ to him as much as his work, his wife, and his family. He only promised when he was determined to follow through.

Bruce has always wanted to be as good of a man as his father. His _real_ father, not that— that _sham _ _.___ That _monster_ who dared to wear his father’s skin and voice like an ill-fitting suit. Who'd hurt his sons. his daughters. Who'd killed his _—_ his _—_  
  
Alfred. Oh, _Alfred _ _—___

Bruce clenches his hands and tries to remember to breathe. Alfred is alive and well. He’s as spry and witty and unshakably ___here___ as he ever has been. There is no need for panic. He knows where Alfred is: it is ten o’clock in the afternoon, and Alfred is preparing a lunch for Cassandra and Stephanie. He always knows where Alfred is, and the addition of knowing where Cassandra and Stephanie are soothes his granite muscles. Tim had once again disabled the trackers, and he’d never gotten the chance to give one to Jason and Dick—

Dick had made his opinion on ___that___ very clear. And Bruce, once again, had been too much of a coward to explain ___why___ he so badly needed to know beyond the flimsy excuses and shields of the Bat and what they did that always turned into accusations of lack of trust.

He doesn’t know how to do this. He barely remembers his father. Alfred had raised him, but their relationship was hardly the same as one between a father and son— Alfred had let him do things that his father ___never___ would have. Even if Bruce considered the man family, it just wasn’t the same. The rest of his relationships, growing up, had all been teachers and trainers— mentors, not father figures. And looking back, that’s how he always tried to outline the relationship: as a mentor. Fatherhood—

He wasn’t sure if he was fit for fatherhood. The idea ___scared___ him as much as he desperately wanted it, wanted to provide what he had been denied. Even now, with eight children in his house, he still feels as if he’s floundering in the dark.

Some days, he feels as if he’s never left the alleyway.

He promised Duke that he would listen and that he would follow through.

Now, more than ever, he wants to be a man of his word.

The only question is...how?

Bruce Wayne gets up and moves to his study.  
  
In order to heal a wound, one must first learn to identify and to treat it.

* * *

First, in the rare, precious moments he gets in between his day and night jobs, he reads. He reads about therapy and trauma and coping mechanisms. He also updates his catalogue of books about parenting since Dick’s first arrival in the manor, focusing on titles with emphasis on communication, translation, and ___love languages.___

Duke has opened up a whole world to him through those two simple words, and at times Bruce simply stares at the words on the page or the screen and is struck dumb by how ___obvious___ things are in hindsight. He reads on child and teen psychologies, and many times is filled with the urge to sink his hands into his face or strike himself across it, so _blatant_ and _stupid_ are his missteps with his own children. Why hasn’t he ever bothered to do this before? How has he allowed things to have gotten so bad?

The answer to that is obvious: he has made the same mistake he has always made: Batman had taken priority over everything. And it burns at him to even call that a mistake, because Batman was...everything, but so was his family. More than ever, he needed his family. ( _When the timeline reset, he was almost relieved. He was hoping that things would go back to normal. That everyone would forget about what he had done. That he wouldn't have to face that maybe **he** was right, and they were both monsters after all._

_But everyone remembered, and there was no true forgiveness.)_

World’s Greatest Detective, they called him. What foolishness.

He watches lectures, reads first and secondhand accounts, does his research as thoroughly as he might for a case. He outlines his ideas, and as much as he’d like to discuss them with either Duke or Alfred, he doesn’t want to make Duke feel responsible for fixing ___his___ relationships. This is Bruce’s problem, plain and simple— the fact that Duke had felt he needed to approach Bruce about it at ___all___ is a deep, deep shame (but not as deep as the fact that he knows what his children’s jawbones feel like, through the gauntlets, and he wonders if ___Arthur Brown___ or ___Jack Drake___ ever feels the same bone-splitting horror that he does, knowing that he is the worst of fathers) and the only resolution for shame is absolution. As for Alfred—

He has asked enough of Alfred. This is his burden to bear. His mistake to fix.

But he still doesn’t feel ready.

But he promised, and it’s already been nearly a week since Duke had talked to him, and he refuses to go back on his word.

So, who to talk to first?

The question is somehow even more daunting than a fight with Bane.

* * *

Stephanie Brown’s first instinct upon seeing Bruce Wayne is to say _it wasn’t my fault_ and run, and she’s not sure what that says about either of them. She’s returned from the cave from a moderately successful patrol, and finds the man himself, cowl off for once, fingers not flying across the keyboard. Instead he’s looking at...photos? Of—

Oh.

Um.

Maybe he hasn’t noticed her. She begins tiptoeing to the stairs.

“Stephanie.” Bruce says, and a chill goes down her spine because she’s ___Batgirl___ (she’s not Spoiler anymore she earned the Bat she earned it she ___earned___ it) while still in costume. _Stephanie_ meant there was a problem.

“Look, if this is about what happened with Hood, _he_ started it.” She states. He swirls in his chair, eyebrow raised in the world’s scariest Spock impression.

“Something happened with Jason?” He asks, and there’s...more than a hint of longing in the name. Jason had all but walked out of the Batfamily after everyone had figured out that the timeline had reset again, and, well—

“We ran into each other on patrol. He said some shit that really wasn't called for. I hit him. He hit back. None of us got too hurt.” Of course, that is a _gross_ understatement. She was still working out exactly how she felt about...anyone in the family right now (she can still feel the pull of that other timeline, when she was with Tim and she felt _happy _ _,___ but it was a saccharine happiness, hollow walls and peeling plaster, she’d been a puppet with dangling strings), but Jason’s sudden appearance had included some choice words she wasn’t willing to abide by. And when she'd dished out some choice words of her own, then...well. 

Rooftop fights were how they communicated in this family.

(Just like dear old dad.)

“Is that why you stayed at the manor, a few days ago?” She hates how Bruce is able to make every question feel like a statement and accusation at once.

“Maybe.” She mutters. Bruce just...nods. Surprisingly. No lecture about recklessness or letting her ___feelings___ get the better of her. A surprise to be sure, but a welcome one— aw, damn it. She should have known watching the prequels with Damian was a bad idea.  
  
“In the future,” he says, voice clipped and tone low, “please inform me when you run into Jason. I need to talk to him.” _Bruce Wayne, **talking** to Jason Todd. Yeah, right. _

“Okay,” She lies. “If that’s all—”

“It isn’t.” Bruce says, and then takes a deep breath, and gestures to the chair beside him. “Would you join me?” A pause. “Please.” He adds.

Oooookay. _Please_ wasn’t a word that Bruce liked to include in his vocab. She hesitantly makes her way over, and sits down half expecting the chair to taze her or flat out explode. “What’s up, boss?”

Bruce does not say anything for a moment. He turns to look at the photos on the screen, and Stephanie follows his vision.

He is looking at a picture of his parents. Not the crime scene photos that they’ve all seen him staring at, on nights when Gotham was quiet and so were they. This is a photo of them, alive and well and _smiling _ _.___ Not the elusively polite ones that all rich families wore in portraits, the smiles that dominate the living room. These are more honest and open and human.

“It has…” Bruce says, eyes still locked on the photo, blue light flooding his face, leaving him looking like a cold statute instead of a man, “come to my attention that I have a long overdue conversation with you.”

Oh. Here it is. She’s been preparing for this for a while.

“You don’t need to give me a speech, Bruce.” She sighs, getting out of the chair, angry at herself for daring to hope that this might have been anything _different_ _ _ _.___ “I get it. I’ll be out of here and way from your kids by morning.” It’s always the same. Every time, it’s always the _exact fucking same _ _—___

“No.” He says, and that— that’s an expression she doesn’t remember him wearing, _guilt_ brushed with frustration and...panic? “I’m… I’m not firing you, Stephanie. Or kicking you out.”

“...oh.” Stephanie swallows. “Then...what’s this about?”

“It’s about many things. Will you sit?” She does, again, still expecting tasers or explosives.

“Do you know,” Bruce begins after another agonizingly long pause, “that you remind me of my mother?” Stephanie doesn’t think that she could physically get more tense than she is right now. Bruce _did not talk_ about his parents. All she could do was stare, numbly. Was there a mind control thing happening? Was Bruce compromised? Did she need to get Alfred? Or the Justice League?

“I don’t have many memories of her left. But what I do remember is that she was kind. Fiercely passionate. Unwilling to be cowed by anyone. Unafraid to do what was right even if it earned her Gotham’s ire.” His tone is so wistful and chock full of things that he usually buried that it’s almost scary. Also, Bruce...indirectly complimenting her? This is entirely uncharted territory, and uncharted territory means she doesn’t know how to avoid setting him off.

“She sounds like an amazing woman.” Stephanie finds herself saying. It’s the safest thing she _can_ say. Talking with him is always like tiptoeing through landmines, but someone’s removed her previous attempts and she’s going in blind and _god_ she just wants to go to sleep.

“She was.” Bruce agrees. “So are you.”

“Bruce, are you...feeling alright?” She asks, even though her own throat is a little more closed up. “You’re being uncharacteristically...nice.” Bruce just sighs at that, and at least there’s ___one___ thing that’s normal right now.

“I’ve been...neglecting an explanation and an apology towards you for years, Stephanie. I— I want you to know that I deeply regret my behavior when you were Robin.” Bruce swallows, as if the words are getting stuck in his throat. “Firing you, was...irresponsible and— and _selfish_ of me. Tim leaving had hurt me, and I was desperate to have him back. I saw you as a means to an end instead of a person, and when it failed, I lashed out. I’m _sorry _ _,___ Stephanie.”

Well, this just isn’t fucking _fair_ _ _ _.___ No one had told her Bruce Wayne was suddenly going to grow a heart. Now she’s crying, and— and—

“Goddamn it, Bruce,” she says, taking off her mask and wiping at her eyes. “Couldn't have given me any warning that you were gonna start being a person?”  
  
“I was worried you wouldn’t want to talk about it.” He admits, looking almost ___sheepish___ , as if such a word could be applied to his near eternal stoicism, hands twitching as if he was unsure of what to do with them. “I know that those memories aren’t pleasant.”

“ _No shit! _ _”___ She knows that there’s a rule about no yelling in the cave but she doesn’t fucking _care_ right now. “You were a colossal _dick _ _!___ I fucking died for you and you didn’t even bother to put my costume up! You made—” She has a moment of clarity where she thinks she’s supposed to be _happy _ _,___ but Bruce’s words have only dragged up every ugly thing she’s tried to bury right back up to the surface. “You made me feel like I was never Robin.” She manages to get out, feeling like she can’t breathe, it’s too much, all too much—

In her peripheral vision, her dad’s hands move.

She scrambles back, clawing for a door that isn’t there.

Bruce freezes so thoroughly, you’d think time had stopped.

“Stephanie.” He breathes out her name as if any sound might shatter her. “I wasn’t—”

She runs.

* * *

Bruce Wayne does not often think about murder.

He is giving serious contemplation to breaking into Blackgate and hurting Arthur Brown until he could never hurt Stephanie again. He can see it so clearly in his mind’s it that it feels more like memory than imagination, the criminal begging and pleading as he snapped every finger in the man’s filthy hands—

Enough. This isn’t productive.

Stephanie had...run. From him.

This is nothing new. Dick had run. Tim had run. It should not hurt this much. His heart should not be a hollow drum inside his chest beating ___stupid, stupid,___ against his ribcage.

He is torn with indecision— part of him thinks he should give Stephanine space, give her time to approach him on her own terms, make sure she feels like she has control. Part of him thinks that approach has lead to years of barely talking with his other children.

So in the end, he goes for a gentle approach— he texts.

 _Stephanie _ _,___ he writes after a long moment of consideration. _It was not my intent to cause you distress, but I can see how my actions may have done that. I’m deeply sorry. I hope you’re okay and that you’re somewhere safe. If you want to continue our conversation, please let me know._

That’s good enough, right? Is it too formal? Too detached? He spends fifteen minutes fretting before his phone _dings_ and he glues his eyes to the screen.

_Im fine._

_…_

_Meet at rooftop._

_Kane and Finger._

Bruce is already running before he finishes reading the text.

* * *

Stephanie is still wearing the Batgirl suit, sitting on the lip of an apartment complex, overlooking the golden glimmer of Gotham’s skyline, a thousand lines twinkling like stars in the night sky. It’s almost beautiful enough to make you forget the darkness beneath.

Bruce is wearing the cowl out of habit, but he wishes they were safe enough to take it off. He doesn’t want to be the Batman he’s been, right now. Batman had started to protect a child from his pain, and eventually it had become a way to channel all of the things he didn’t want to acknowledge. He tries to remember the birth of himself as he approaches her.

“Hey, B.” Stephanie says, throat hoarse from tears. “Have a seat?” Batman doesn’t sit.

He sits.

“Hello, Batgirl.” He returns. “I—” A hand has been thrust into his face.

“If you meant what you said, lemme talk.” She swallows, waits for him to speak. When he doesn't, she continues. “Growing up, my dad talked a lot to me. _Promised_ a lot. Promised that it’d be different this time. That everything would be fine. That we’d get through this. That he was a _changed man _ _.”___ She snorts. “Then he’d tell me that I was worthless, smack me, and shove me in the closet. And I’d stay there and listen to whatever happened next. Promises were like money to him— something you spend to get something else.”

“You value a kept promise.” Bruce surmises.

“I value people who don’t lead me on and then kick me out once they’ve gotten what they wanted from me.” Bruce doesn’t quite manage to suppress the flinch, and Stephanie sighs, burning her hands in her face. “Sorry. That wasn’t productive. I’m— I’m _glad_ you apologized, B— Batman. I just…”

“You don’t know how long it’s going to last.” Bruce guesses. Stephanie nods.

“I still can’t listen to construction work without freaking out.” She states, and Bruce’s heart sinks so far into his stomach it burns in the acid (he will never forget that room. with Stephanie, and the table, listening to a heart monitor. Jason, he'd found dead. Stephanie, he'd watched die.) “Did you know that? Ba— Oracle tries her best to give me routes that avoid it. But sometimes I’ll just be walking, and I’ll be back— back in the room with _him_ all over again. And I have to go find something to punch to get out. And sometimes, no matter how much I hit something, I still can't get out of the damn room.” She snorts again, but this time there’s something wet choking the sound. “I guess we’re similar in that way, huh?”

He fights the instinct to hug her, to squeeze until all of the pain is soaked up and he’s the only one that’s hurting. The way it should be.

“I just—if you’re serious about wanting things to be better, Bruce—”  
  
“I am.” He rushes out. “I truly am—”   
  
“Then maybe say things like you said in the cave more often? I just— I thought you _hated _ _me.___ I still think you hate me, some days. I work my ___ass___ off to get even just a ___sliver___ of your approval and then you turn around a day later and yell at me for not being perfect.” Bruce winces again. He demands a lot from his children, he knows. He— he ___has___ to. If they make a mistake in the field they could die and he could lose them all over again—

“We _know_ we could die, Bruce. We’ve all died.” Stephanie huffs, and his usually remarkably good filter has failed him. “Except Duke, I guess. But we really don’t need reminders.”

“I’m sorry.” Bruce says again, and he’s sure he’s going to be saying the word a lot more in the future. “My behavior was— wrong. I wasn’t in a good space, and I took it out on you. I should have realized how badly you needed me to be a good father, not just a drill sergeant. I couldn’t see past my own fears and needs.” He swallows. “Please tell me how I can make it up to you.”

“I… don’t know if you _can _ _,___ B.” She admits, and Bruce… had been expecting that, even though the words are burrowing into his brain (like a bullet, bang bang, your family is _dead_ ). “But,” she says, and hope ignites in his chest, “you can start making things better now by just… being nicer? I know that’s vague and unhelpful but— I’d just like to hear that you don’t hate me, you know? And that I’m not a— a failure.”

“You were brilliant, Stephanie.” Bruce says, in a rare moment of ignoring protocol. “You continue to be brilliant. Even as I— even when I disagree with you, I am so very happy you are alive. And I’m so proud to see the woman you’ve become.”

“...okay.” Stephanie gives him a weak grin. “ Not bad. We can work on it, but not bad. I guess you can hug me now.”

He does. He tries to convey everything he can’t with words: how deeply sorry he is, how he wished he could have gone back and made different choices, how she deserved better than this, how she made him proud every time she wore the symbol and saved a life.

She hugs back just as fiercely, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, she gets it.

They stand there for a long while before returning to the manor together, talking quietly about a number of things. There’s a strange fragility to the air, now, the attempt at mending reopening old wounds. Things aren’t fixed. Not by a long shot, but…

It’s something.

And if there’s a little water in both of their eyes as they ascend into the manor, that’s no one’s business but theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT FINALLY THIS TOOK FOREVER I'M GONNA COLLAPSE
> 
> also huge thank yous to Raven_Hinn for helping me with some idea bouncing!

**Author's Note:**

> It's past time that someone told Bruce that he's fucked up and needs to make amends to his kids like yesterday. SMH bruce fix your familiar relationships before going rooftop chasing again
> 
> Also the title is, of course, a reference from DEH.


End file.
